


Ataash-saam

by slambam



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Mild Gore, Mouth Sewn Shut, Mouth gore, Other, Saarebas, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 16:08:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5423417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slambam/pseuds/slambam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>A void she hadn’t realized was there had been filled, and she felt alive. Complete.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>  <i>For the first time in years, she felt whole, and fresh anger welled inside her. </i></p><p> </p><p>A Saarebas makes her escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ataash-saam

**Author's Note:**

> As tagged - mouth gore, lots of violence. :S 
> 
> this is specifically the origin story of Vat-Asaara, the eventual mentor of my Qunari Mage Inquisitor, but I thought it might be interesting on its own seeing as it still exists in the universe. referenced from the wiki/in game information.

Saarebas stared at the inside of her mask, teeth clenched, heavy breathing only adding to the humid air trapped against her face. It was becoming almost as hard to hold her arms in place as it was to tolerate the scraped, ripped skin of her forearms pressing against the metal and wood of the cuffs that bound them, but she held her shaking arms steady, pressed up against the edges of the metal. It had to be now. It had to be tonight.

Holding a deep breath, Saarebas dragged her arms up – just a little farther, but not far enough. She was so close. The frustration was immediate as the metal dug into the heels of her palms, and desperation followed just behind. There was no way for her to tell how much of the night there was left. If they discovered her in the morning with her arms scraped the way they were, it would be death or worse. It had to be now. With a violent exhale, Saarebas gritted her teeth and pressed her fingers together, letting her whole weight fall on the cuffs as she yanked her hands upward.

Flesh tore and she could feel the blood dripping down her fingertips, her hands falling with a soft thump to the mat beneath her. She panted as quietly as she could through her nose, pressing her swollen, sore lips together and closing her eyes in relief. It was almost funny that the fresh, tight stitches across her mouth muffled any small sound she might make. Arvaarad couldn’t have known the favor he was doing her when he held her chin up, pressing the needle through her skin.

Saarebas fought to keep her arms steady as she raised them to grip the warm metal edges of her mask. The Saarebas on either side of her hadn’t stirred, but the slightest jerk of the chain that bound them all together might awaken them, and if that happened one of them would certainly alert the Arvaarad.

That wouldn’t happen.

It couldn’t happen.

As she lifted the mask upwards a rush of cool night air purged the dank humidity she’d been trapped with, and she might have cried. She set the mask back behind her head and then twisted her arms to slip them under the chains that held the collar to her body – have to be careful, she reminded herself, have to be slow. Can’t wake the others.

She gripped the edge of the collar, steadying herself as best she could. Her arms trembled, though whether it was from excitement or exhaustion she couldn’t tell, but she was free of her cuffs, the mask, and soon she would be free of the yoke they put on her. As if she could be led around by the nose like some stupid qabala. No more. They’d see.

Little by little, bit by bit, she held the collar in its place as she wriggled downwards, but at the moment the collar passed over the top of her head a surge of something poured into her, like a suddenly undammed river thundering to the sea. It snatched the breath from her lungs and she dropped the collar in shock, the sense gone from her head, and for a few moments all she could do was lay there, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. A void she hadn’t realized was there had been filled, and she felt alive. Complete.

For the first time in years, she felt whole, and fresh anger welled inside her.  
The rustling of chains stirred her from her fury and she quickly shoved herself to her feet, staggering to the center pole of the tent. She clung to it to support herself and watched one of the Saarebas raise his head – the one who’d been tethered next to her. She narrowed her eyes, brow furrowing. He was the one who'd earned all of them stitched mouths with his sleep-talking.

As realization dawned on him and he began to shake awake the others, panicked whimpering stifled by his mask and the stitches, Saarebas did the first thing that came into her head - cast her hand forward, as if throwing a stone. The ball of flame that followed struck him in the chest, and his cry of alarm turned into a shriek of horror as his garment caught, flames licking at his skin. As the others stirred, Saarebas raised her hand high, body trembling, and clenched it into a fist. An explosion rocked the tent, and flame was all Saarebas could see.

The cacophony of panicked screams was too much to process, and Saarebas fled the tent, stumbling across the sand on unsteady legs as the heat pressed against her back. She’d seen a boulder big enough to hide behind at the fringes of the camp – where was it, where was it? Looking around wildly, she continued to run, and then – there! She scrambled for the boulder as the agonized howls of her karataam reached a crescendo, flames licking at the night sky.

Saarebas slid behind the rock just as Arvaarad started to bark orders, the shouting of the others rising above the din. The sound of his voice was muffled, but she could still pick him out – she’d always be able to pick him out. For a moment, just a moment, the cold claws of fear gripped her at the core and she was paralyzed.

What if she was caught?

Closing her eyes and leaning against the rock, Saarebas exhaled hard and furrowed her brow.

She’d known all too well that she might not survive the night when she set her mind to this, when she’d begun to plan – months and months, maybe years ago. The shouts of the unit barely reached her as she clenched her jaw, steeling herself. Gripping a crag in the rock with her bloodied hands, she pulled herself upwards. Some of the cuts on her palms pulled open and she stared at them for a moment before smearing the new blood across her face, her chest. It wasn't vitaar, but she felt stronger. She wasn't afraid. She wouldn't be afraid, not of them.

Her steps were unsteady at first, feet slipping in the sand, but soon her legs quickened, a growing confidence and fury fueling her stride. As she grew closer to the tents she could see the members of the unit attempting to fight the fire, beating it back as best they could without water, the Saarebas they might have used trapped in the blaze, helpless. She stopped on the crest of the hill, a tremble that began in her chest spreading until her entire body felt like it was vibrating with the intensity of the new power.

Saarebas’s lip curled in a snarl, pulling at the stitches, and she raised her hand, the flames of the Karataam’s tent glinting in her eyes. One of the men caught sight of her and pointed, shouting.

They would suffer as she had suffered. They would truly know what it was to fear a Saarebas.

The explosion that threw the soldiers back onto the sand was like nothing she’d ever felt. The energy she’d used was absent from her for only a moment and she felt despair creep into her, but when it returned, it was as though there was no room inside her for anything else. As she cast her hand across the ground a wall of flame erupted in front of her and it all began to blur into a buzzing, thrumming roar.

 

* * *

 

 

When lucidity found her again she was on her knees, barely seeing what was in front of her. Smoldering heaps of debris on blackened sand – when her vision came back into focus, she saw some of them were bodies, charred almost to ash. It was quiet, but for the crackling of a few still-lit flames.

Light was creeping over the horizon.

She staggered to her feet and lurched around the ruined camp –there was a useable belt on one of the bodies and she fell on it, turning the corpse as best she could to claw the belt open. It came away in her shaking hands and she pulled it around her waist, glancing around frantically. There was an empty sheath on the belt and she looked for the dagger – in the corpse’s hand. She snatched it, ignoring the burn of the hot metal on her fingertips and shoved it into the sheath. Smoke and ashes blew in the wind across the campsite, catching her eye, and she had to watch closely to convince herself they weren’t people, too.

A few feet away there was something that looked like a waterskin and she ran for it, bending to grasp at it in the sand. As she straightened, an arm wrapped around her neck, tightening before she could make any move against it and she gasped, making a choked, panicked noise as the man pulled her closer. His skin, massively burned, practically sloughed off under her nails as she flailed

“Saarebas, what have you done?” His voice was barely a rasp, but it was Arvaarad. Saarebas’ eyes widened as his hand found the dagger in the sheath at her hip. “… return – return to dust. For my brothers.”

Her death would come, as it did for all people, but it would not come by his hand. Not now.

With a roar she opened her mouth as wide as she could, ignoring the searing pain as the stitches ripped through her flesh, and dug her teeth and nails into Arvaarad’s arm as hard as she could. Hot blood poured into her mouth and the stab meant for her side glanced off her hip as he jerked away from her, cursing in pain. She whirled around, ramming into him as hard as she could with her shoulder and he toppled, the dagger falling from his hand and sliding away across the sand. He rolled to crawl for it, but Saarebas leapt on him, pinning his arms with her knees. He was too weak to push her off and she gripped one of his horns and forced his head into the sand, spitting her mouthful of blood to one side, breathing raggedly through her newly-opened mouth. The dagger was too far to reach, but there was a hatchet on the ground just to her right.

She grabbed it, held it in a shaking hand, and hesitated, a stray thought sticking in her panic-addled mind. With a wild scream she began to hack at Arvaraad’s horns, and blood dripped from her torn mouth onto the back of his head as she worked. The Qun had taken hers, so she would have these - a poor substitute for the dignity she'd lost that day. When she finished, she cradled the massive horns in one arm, dropping the hatchet and gripping the back of his neck. Her lips were too mangled for words, but action would speak just as loudly.

The small explosion drove blood upwards, spattering her face and torso and she blinked it out of her eyes, taking breath in half-sobs. He was still and she took a moment, just one moment, to feel the exhaustion of the night before she pushed herself off of his body, grabbing the dagger and shoving it into its sheath, clutching the horns to her chest.

She stumbled towards where the remaining horses were tethered. Most of them had fled at the panic and the fire, but a few hadn’t been able to break free. Some bucked and whinnied at her approach but she ignored them, walking towards the one tethered furthest from the camp.

It took her a few tries to get her foot in the stirrup and hoist herself up into the saddle after she'd calmed the animal, her strength almost failing. She’d learned a bit about riding as a girl, before her magic manifested, when she was still slated for the Antaam. It came back easier than she’d expected it would, even in the fog of her mind, the ache in her muscles, and she balanced as best she could, snapping the reigns. The horse trotted forward, then broke into a full gallop as she dug in her heels, lowering her head. The sun was a bloody hemisphere on the horizon and Saarebas used it to turn the horse to the south, away from the carnage, away from the coast, away from Par Vollen across the sea.

She slumped into the saddle, letting her head loll forward. Blood was all she could taste and she swallowed hard before opening her mouth to gasp the air, unfettered by mask or stitches. She couldn’t properly close her mouth, but the air was all she needed, all she wanted. She was free. She would never be leashed again.


End file.
